The Day I Died, He Married Her

Chapter 4

I barely made it through the door before collapsing, blood spilling from my lips.

Numbly, I wiped it away, poured myself a glass of warm water, and swallowed my medication.

Stomach cancer. Depression. Slowly, quietly, they were eating me alive.

I knew I was dying.

But I didn't want to go out pitifully.

Even in death, I wanted to leave with some shred of dignity.

That night, I packed a small bag and drove out toward the edge of the city.

To the Winters' old ancestral home.

That house held the most beautiful memories of my youth—of Ethan Winters and me.

Time had not been kind. Dust coated every surface. Snow blanketed the stone path outside.

I stood there, barefoot in the cold, and was pulled back to that summer night long ago—beneath the locust tree—when Ethan first kissed me.

Our story had begun here.

It felt right that it should end here too.

I wondered—would he come, when he heard I was gone?

Would he remember?

That under this very tree, he once told a girl he'd love her forever.

I put on my favorite white dress and the prettiest makeup I had. Then I stepped into the snow, leaving behind warmth and comfort without looking back.

I came to say goodbye.

But I couldn't help wandering the house one last time.

The rusted doorknob. The weathered lattice windows.

The peeling red paint. The fading clay figurines.

There, on the windowsill of the east wing, sat two small sculptures—one boy, one girl.

They were a birthday gift I'd made for Ethan when I was fifteen. Hand-molded. Hand-painted. From scratch.

After we broke up, he returned them.

I hadn't had the heart to throw them away, but I didn't want them near me either. So I left them here.

They were once the purest symbol of my love.

Now, like me, they had been forgotten.

Turns out, things that aren't cherished—people that aren't cherished—are just as worthless.

The cold crept in through the soles of my feet, climbing up my legs and into my chest.

Clutching at the pain in my ribs, I dropped to my knees, coughing violently.

A bright red stain spread across the untouched snow.

Just like my relationship with Ethan.

What once felt like a perfect, first love—pure and white—had long since been trampled and soiled.

Before I passed out, I dragged myself to the locust tree in the courtyard.

Two names were carved into the bark, long faded but still legible:

Rachel Summers.

Ethan Winters.

I traced each letter with frozen fingers and let out a bitter laugh.

People always move on.

Ethan had. A long time ago.

Only I stayed behind, clinging to broken memories, wasting what was left of my life.

Leaning against the tree, I started to drift in and out of consciousness.

And then—I heard my father's voice, soft and distant, like a memory underwater.

"Ethan, here to see Rachel again?"

"Just helping her with her homework."

Then I saw her—me, from another lifetime. Fifteen, wearing that same white dress he loved.

She came bounding down from the attic with flushed cheeks and crescent-moon eyes, lit up with joy.

"Ethan!"

She stood before him, so sweet, so bright. Looking up at him like he hung the stars.

Back then, he was her whole world.

And she—she didn't know that love doesn't always last forever.